


groovve thing

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Clubbing, Crack Pairing, Dream Bubble, Hermaphroditic Trolls, M/M, March Eridan, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-18
Updated: 2012-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 03:09:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your afterlife groove thing is being visited by an underage crossdressing alien.</p><p>Okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	groovve thing

**Author's Note:**

> Reasons I should not be allowed on tumblr: I treat [random reaction image gifs](http://homestuckreactionimages.tumblr.com/post/16991661694) as fic prompts.
> 
> idek.

The beat's a steady kick, fast and hard, thrumming through you like the heartbeat you don't have anymore. You flip vinyl through your hands, melding one track perfectly with the next, splicing them together like a mad dance floor scientist, and in between tracks you look out at the seething crowd: they're your memories, and you're self-aware enough to know that. But this is a good memory, so you hang out in it pretty often.

And then you catch a glimpse of something that isn't part of your memory of this night, just a second of seeing this kid who doesn't belong here—tiny and delicate, probably too young to get in the door, and more importantly that bare skin is gray. And there's a _lot_ of bare skin.

You've gone visiting before—the bubbles are plenty permeable, if you have the volition to move through them—but this might be the first time anyone has come to visit you. The beats will take care of themselves if you tell them to; it's your dream. You slip off your headphones and leave them on the mixer as you make your way down into the crowd.

You get close enough to see the kid move, a spot of bright delinquent-schoolgirl colors in a sea of vague memory people. The tiny plaid skirt does nothing to disguise the narrowness of the hips it clings to. Possibly makes it more obvious, if anything. Your afterlife groove thing is being visited by an underage crossdressing alien.

Okay.

When you hit the dance floor the kid spots you right away, heading toward you with the single-minded determination of a shark scenting blood in the water. You can play it cool, but your little alien visitor has no patience at all, shimmying right on up into your personal space and grinding those skinny hips against the goods. "Hey there, kitten," you say.

The alien smiles at you and you instantly cross blowjobs off the list of potential party games. "So you're the one throwwin this party?" The voice is deeper than you expected, makes you wonder if these guys are just smaller than humans in general, rather than this one being on the wrong side of the puberty line.

You nod. "Spinning up the illest grooves in two universes for the most aurally discriminating of the recently deceased," you say. You slide a hand along bare midriff and discover that it feels like eelskin or something, smooth and poreless. And there's no good way to ask this next one, so you figure you'll just get the awkwardness over with and move on: "So you're a guy?"

The kid glares at you over the rims of thick hipster glasses, pouting, eyes limpid raw-egg-yolk yellow. "Cod, I'd forgot you humans wwere so hung up on that."

Ouch. You have just had your coolness seriously called into question by an alien kid dressed for a Hot Topic fashion show. "Not all humans," you say. "Some of us don't really give any damns what the answer is, we just have an internal monologue to keep up here, and are hoping we won't spend all night avoiding using pronouns for you."

"Oh," the kid says. "I guess that's awwright then. Yeah, I am." He bats his eyelashes at you. "Plannin to spend all night thinkin about me, huh?"

He's cute when he flirts. Weird, yeah, gray eelskin and fins and fangs, but cute.

You pay enough attention to the music that it starts to get interesting again, and then you dance. Well, first you "dance" with him for a while, the kind of dumbass dry-humping club bullshit that a tiny corner of your soul has always loathed. It's so _obvious_ , and has so little finesse, and it really stops seeming transgressive or exciting when you're...about as old as your little alien boyfriend looks.

Eventually you can't help yourself, though: the room is shaking with music you love, and you want to _move_. You take a step back and the crowd kind of opens up to give you space, and you let yourself cut loose. The club lights blur and swim in your vision as you jump, twist, spin; you catch yourself on your hands and flip. You freeze, flip, freeze again. Gravity is for chumps.

He's watching you when you deign to go back to being right-side-up, lips parted and this little intent hungry look on his face. One flash step and you're right up in his personal space. "This some kinda human matin ritual?" he asks. "Showwin off your athletic prowwess to impress a potential mate?"

"Absolutely," you say. "It's a centuries-old tradition, firing up the sickest available beats and busting the freshest possible moves in order to charm the lacy panties off all observers. There was a brief period in the halcyon days of the benevolent Emperor Kool Herc when all warfare was set aside and conflicts were resolved entirely by demonstrations of pure breaking skill."

He chews on his lip for a second with that mouthful of little razors. "I think you're fuckin wwith me," he says.

"I am never anything less than sincere," you say. He doesn't look convinced, but he also doesn't argue when you slip an arm around his waist and pull him close to you again. His skin is cool to the touch, especially now that you've been moving and active. His eyes widen a little at your touch and he leans into you.

"So wwarm," he breathes, reaching up to drape his arms over your shoulders. "Cod, that's kinky."

Nice to know you're holding up your end of the fetish bargain here, even if you didn't put the kind of effort into being endothermic that he seems to have put into his costume. You lean down so your hot human breath will warm the ragged fin he has in place of an ear when you ask, "So how about it, kitten? Do I have a decent shot at getting in your pretty panties?"

"Thought you'd nevver ask," he murmurs, and nips your earlobe. The sharp teeth are intense, but not quite too much, and the intensity makes a little shiver run down your spine.

"Don't let go," you tell him, and tighten your grip before you flash-step the pair of you to the little boys' room.

His little breathless laugh sure sounds impressed. "Wwoww," he says. "Just goin for wwhat you wwant, huh?" He's got claws, little sharp points prickling your shoulders. "Pretty sexy."

You steer him into the nearest stall, making sure to remember this bathroom at its cleanest, and pin him up against the door. He's a scrawny little thing, but there's some strength pushing back as you hold him there.

"Kiss me," he says, and you think he's probably trying to make it sound like a demand. You go with it. His mouth is chilly, too, and he tastes like a weird mix of sweet and salt, and he's careful with those shark teeth. He kisses like he's in a movie, lots of movement, lots of breathy little sounds. You bite his bottom lip and then pull back.

"People are going to hear you doing that," you say. "All kinds of kinky, aren't you?"

His gray face flushes sort of purple. "They ain't real like you an me," he says, "so wwhat do I care?"

Kid's poker face could use a lot of work, but you don't need to try to school him on it now. It's kind of cute, the way he's a complete open book.

"Thought it might make it hotter for you," you tell him. "Being reminded you have an audience." You lean into him, run your fingers up the outside of his thigh, trace the line where his stocking ends and bares his smooth cool skin. You really kind of like the way he feels. Something about that texture, about the constant little reminder that you're the only human getting dirty here.

"Okay, maybe," he says, "maybe that's kinda sexy, yeah." He squirms, maybe ticklish, maybe just trying to make you hurry, as you tease your way around to the inside of his thigh. His hips rock and you watch him bare his sharp little teeth and you wonder just how alien the rest of him is.

Alien enough that his panties are damp when you skate your fingertips over the smooth satin, and whatever he's packing in there squirms like it's got a mind of its own. His face is still easy enough to read, though, the way his eyes go wide and pleading like he can't believe you're actually doing this and he's terrified you might stop.

"You speak up if you've got any pointers," you tell him, because you're man enough to ask for directions. "Since you've got a model that's not exactly what I'm used to performing on."

"Sure, yeah, just quit teasin," he says, which is not the most helpful of instructions, but you can improvise. You reach up a little further so you can slip your hand down into his panties—not trying to take them off; what's the point of putting on a costume if you're rushed back out of it again?—and discover that alien dick is prehensile, like a tentacle that hasn't hit its growth spurt yet. You try squeezing it and he throws his head back so hard the tips of his horns scrape paint off the door. "Oh, fuck," he says, "oh, fuck."

You pop the top button on your jeans with your free hand. "Any time you want to get in on the exploration game, you know where to find me," you prompt him, and he nods frantically. His claws snag on your boxers and then he just kind of rips the fly button off, which you reward with another slow squeeze, and then he's pulling your dick free and getting his cool too-smooth fingers wrapped around it.

"Fuck, that's big," he says—not even like he's trying to flatter you, just like he was honestly not expecting to find this much firepower in your pants. He looks almost freaked out.

You let your lip quirk up at one corner, just a little. "Too much for you?" you ask. This is, pardoning the expression, a dick move.

He _pouts_. "I ain't scared a your monster bulge," he says. "Come on an givve it to me."

"No way I'm turning that down, princess," you tell him. You let your hand push down a little further, actually between his legs, to see what you've got to work with. No hair, not even a stubbly prickle, on his delicate almost-human balls, and you're going to tell yourself that's just that aliens don't have body hair ever. And then you find the perfect distraction from your moral awkwardness when you get just another half inch further back and discover that the rest of that wetness came from his cool slippery alien pussy. He whines through his teeth when your run your fingertips along the length of his slit.

"Come on," he says, "come on," fins fluttering and his cheeks going almost as purple as the streak in his hair.

"Yeah, up you go, babydoll." You tug his panties down just enough to clear the entire variety pack of alien junk, then wrap your hands around his skinny ass and boost him up against the stall door. "Legs around me."

The kid wraps his legs around your waist, all skinny, wiry muscle. "You are such a pervvert," he says admiringly. He doesn't even know the half of it.

"You love it," you say, because it's goddamn obvious. You rub the head of your dick up against the slippery folds of his pussy and wonder exactly what his natural body temperature is, because it sure as hell isn't ninety-eight six. "Last chance to change your mind."

"I ain't gonna beg," he says, and you award him a couple of points for that even if his voice is shaky when he says it. "You wwant it too."

You nod. You'll give him a couple more points for that. "Then let's dance, kitten." You pull him down onto your dick, slow and steady, and it is _unreal_ how literally cool he feels. He whimpers, tossing his head again, his little pigtails bouncing and that one stray purple streak falling across his forehead.

"Oh cod," he says, eyes squeezed shut, squirming on your dick like it's already wrecking him. "Fuckin huge, you're gonna split me right in half." You almost ask if he's sure he can stand it, because this feels great but it's not like you're enough of a douchebag to want to seriously _hurt_ him. But he locks his legs tighter around your waist and does his damn best to rock himself down on you. "Come on, don't fuckin go soft on me noww."

You do the gentlemanly thing: you give it to him. Slow at first, speeding up as you get a feel for him, as you start to really believe he might be as tough as he thinks he is. Hell, if he's conscious enough to come adventuring in someone else's dreams, he probably knows how to _make_ himself that tough in a dream bubble. You brace a hand on the door for leverage and lean into him, fucking him harder. He gives you a tiny, breathy moan. You lean in and nip the edge of his ear-fin. "Louder, babe. Let everyone who walks in that door know you're getting some and they're not."

"Oh, _fuck_ ," he says—yeah, that was the right way to talk to him—and his pussy ripples around you as he squirms against the door. "Fuck yeah, givve it to me hard like that." The texture of his pussy is almost normal, you think, but the coolness makes you think of like...starfish or something, anemones, eels, slippery totally inhuman things. The specifics here are new, but you've pretty much already made your peace with the fact that you like sticking your dick in inhuman things.

"Feels good, babe," you tell him as he clenches and flutters. "Just like that, damn, do that again."

He croons something high and wordless—or maybe it's words, in whatever his alien language is, this liquid needy sound that rises up from his throat and spills out of him. You glance down and his tentacle dick is squirming between you, wet and purple and making a sloppy mess of his skirt. This is _fucked up_ and that fucked-upness is _hot_ and you're doing zero to sixty at an impressive speed even for a club hookup, your balls drawing up and your spine arching down as you fuck your way deep into this alien kid and he moans like you're a fucking sex god.

You give it up, balls deep in him and your dick pulsing, pyrotechnics going off in your nervous system, and he's going, "Oh cod I can feel that, you just, oh _cod_ ," the kind of freaked out that means he's approaching orgasm at unsafe speeds. "Fuck, you gotta let me movve," he says, "let me get flipped ovver," and you're a little slow and clumsy by your standards right now but that's still damn suave by anyone else's, acrobatic enough to get him flipped over with his feet back on the floor without pulling him off your dick.

"Need a little help finishing off, huh?" you ask, and you get a hand on his squirming dick and then he summons up a shiny metal bucket from somewhere, dropping it between his legs and nodding frantically. This is weird, but you're dead and he's an alien, so weird is the new normal for you, you guess. You pull and squeeze and he claws more paint off the door as he squirms, and then he's thrashing like a fish on a hook and _gushing_ into the bucket.

Holy shit.

You're too cool to ask questions; like hell you're going to let this kid know he's got weird you hadn't met before. But you do crane your head to look down at the contents of the bucket—it's almost half full of pearly lavender alien jizz that looks like fancy hand soap. You let yourself be impressed for a second, really quietly.

He's not being quiet. He's saying stuff like, "Oh my cod, that wwas—you're—wwoww, just, fuck," and he lets his head fall forward against the door. He's shaking a little.

You pull out. You're not surprised to see the stuff smeared on your dick is purple, too. You can just concentrate it away in a dream bubble, though, no need for awkward wiping up with toilet paper. "So it was good for you, huh?"

" _Fuck_ , yeah, it wwas," he says. He's a little stumbly and fuck-drunk when he gets himself turned around to look at you again, but he manages to sidestep the jizz bucket okay. He throws his arms around your neck and leans up for a kiss, and his teeth do catch your lip a little but whatever, you're fine. When he pulls back he's looking at you like he's high, you're his celebrity crush, and he's just won the fucking lottery without even playing. "You wwanna come back to my hivve?" he asks, and then shrugs one skinny shoulder. "My dream bubble I mean, I guess, wwhatevver."

Well. You don't exactly have appointments to keep anymore. "Yeah, I guess I can clear some room in my schedule," you say. Boredom seems to be your worst enemy in the afterlife, and an alien sex tour sounds like just the thing to hold it off for a while. "Lead the way."


End file.
